


Reflex

by drpepperdiva91



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief, John is heartbroken, One Shot, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03, Suicidal Ideation, and a saint, and depressed, and suicidal, greg is a great friend, heed the tags people, sherlock is "dead"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 20:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1912062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot. After Sherlock's funeral, John gives up on functioning. Lestrade comes to the flat to find him dangerously dehydrated, malnourished, and depressed.</p><p>Set post-Reichenbach, pre-series 3. Could be canon compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflex

**Author's Note:**

> “And perhaps there is a limit to the grieving that the human heart can do. As when one adds salt to a tumbler of water, there comes a point where simply no more will be absorbed.”  
> -Sarah Waters, "The Little Stranger"

"John? John, look at me, mate. You've got to say something. You're scaring me."

John stared forward, unwilling or unable to acknowledge Greg was there. Sherlock's funeral had been six days ago, and John had given up. He hadn't eaten since the funeral, except for the odd biscuit here and there to chase the nausea away. He'd stopped sleeping, except for when his body forcibly collapsed from exhaustion. He hadn't showered, and was still in the pajamas that he had donned after returning from the burial.

He knew he must smell of sick and sweat and grief. He knew he was suffering from the sleep deprivation, and that he was dissociating and experiencing micro-sleeps while Greg was talking to him. He knew he was losing an alarming amount of weight. He knew all of these facts, but simply couldn't bring himself to care. He'd decided, this morning when he'd nearly fallen over after trying to stand up, that he was done. He'd lie here, on Sherlock's bed, smelling the detective around him, holding his dressing gown to his chest, until he joined the man six feet under. He could do that, if he couldn't bring himself to eat, or sleep, or shower, or move. He could wait patiently for death to take him home.

He wouldn't be in this predicament if he had gone ahead and used his gun, a few days ago when he could still lift it.

"John, please, mate. Do I need to call an ambulance? You've got to let me help you." Lestrade's voice seemed strange and distant to him, as if it were sunlight filtered through stained glass.  _How long has Greg been here?_ John felt his head turning slightly, as if it were disconnected from his own nervous system and wired into someone else's control. He felt Greg's fingers prodding his carotid artery, desperately seeking a pulse that he knew, somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, would be weak and thready with dehydration. 

John struggled to force his eyes to obey him, his gaze rolling wildly before focusing on Greg's eyes.  _I'm so sorry, Greg. I can't do this._

"John! There you are, mate. I see you. I've got you. Okay? I've got you, I'm not losing you. I'm not losing another one, John. You've got to stay with me."

John tried to smile at Greg, to reassure him. He wasn't sure if his lips moved at all. He realized his tongue was so dry that it was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and the insides of his lips were rough against his teeth.  _How long has it been? Is it time yet? Can't be much longer, now._

Suddenly, he felt his body rise off the bed, only dimly aware that Greg was carrying him. He wanted to ask where Greg was taking him, to beg not to go to the hospital, to please be left to die in peace. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was wet. Something warm was spraying on his face, and he felt his mouth open reflexively.  _Water. So thirsty. Why am I so thirsty? Thank you, Greg._

"John, hey now, the water's gonna help wake you up a little. I dunno when you showered last, mate, but it wasn't recently. You're alright, just stay conscious for me. We'll get you a little more clean, get some fluid and food in you, and then rest. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner. I should have stayed, after. I knew better. Fuck." Greg's head dropped out of John's line of sight, but he could feel the pressure of a forehead against his shoulder.

John's clothes were cool and heavy against his skin, plastered to his skin by the water falling from the shower head. He left his mouth open, relishing the moisture in his mouth that he hadn't realized he'd been missing. He was foggy; every thought that crossed his mind seemed to have slowed to a snail's pace. He wasn't sure if he remembered how to speak, but apparently he could still swallow. The water was soothing his throat, so he must be swallowing.  _Reflexes,_ he remembered.  _Swallowing is a reflex. At least your brainstem is still working._

He was starting to come back to himself, the pressure of Greg's head on his shoulder and the wetness of the water against his face grounding him slightly, through his haze. He realized he was reclined in the bathtub, fully clothed, with the shower on and Greg was still talking to him.

"...s'okay, John. S'okay now. I'm gonna find you something dry to wear. We'll have some weak tea and biscuits and get you hydrated, and then you can sleep." John was having an easier time maintaining eye contact with Greg now, but he still couldn't keep his eyes from rolling up to the ceiling or to the side every so often. Greg turned off the tap, John blinked again, and by the time his eyes opened again, Greg was gingerly toweling his torso dry and helping him into a clean pair of pants and his dressing gown. Had John been more lucid, he would register his feelings of humiliation and shame at how far he'd let himself go. As it was, he was simply vaguely thankful that someone was helping him get more comfortable.  _It feels better to be almost clean_. _  
_

He struggled to lift a shaking hand to Greg's, which was currently hovering over his shoulder where it had just pulled up his dressing gown. He made it as far as Greg's elbow before he was out of strength, but Greg recognized the gesture for what it was.

"You're welcome, John, but it's okay. I should have been here. _Someone_ should have been here with you. Let's get you to the sofa, I don't think it's good for you to be in his room right now, okay? I'll put some tea on. You need to get hydrated, okay? I know you don't want to go to the hospital." John tried to nod, but wasn't sure if he managed it. After he blinked, he had been hoisted into Greg's arms again and was halfway to the sofa.  _It feels like I'm flying. Is this what it felt like when he fell?_

The next moment John was aware, he was propped against the arm of the couch and felt a spoonful of lukewarm, weak tea sliding into his mouth.  _Swallowing, again. Brainstem._  John stretched out his fingers, barely grazing them against the side of Greg's shirt.  _Thank you. So thirsty._ Greg spoon-fed him the tea at a painstakingly slow pace, acutely aware that John's stomach had not had anything inside it in far longer than was healthy. John did his best with the biscuit that was pressed to his lips, but couldn't stay awake long enough to finish chewing, and nearly choked. Greg smashed the next bit of biscuit with the spoon and soaked up some tea with it before giving it to John.  _God, Greg. I can't believe you're doing this. Thank you._

The sudden rush of carbohydrates from the biscuits and sugary tea was giving John a headache, but he was starting to focus and form some more coherent thoughts. His first was, _o_ _h God, I nearly killed myself,_ and his second was _Greg Lestrade is saving my life, Jesus Christ._

"...that's it, John. That's better," Greg was saying as John swallowed the last of the tea. John struggled to speak, his throat raw and sore, and his tongue lethargic from disuse. 

"Gr-eg," John managed to get out, his voice unfamiliar and rough on his own ears. 

Greg's eyes were glassy with the tears he was holding back for John's sake.  _God, he nearly died. I almost lost him, too. John nearly died. Thank God I got here. Thank God. Thank God._ "Hey, looks like you're a little more with it now, mate. I want you to rest some more. I'll wake you up for more tea soon. Rest for now. I'm right here. I'm gonna stay here, with you. I don't wanna be alone either, that's why I came..." Greg's voice continued as John let himself drift off into a dreamless sleep-land, where nobody cried over the deaths of high-functioning, sociopathic, consulting detectives.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a head-cannon of mine while writing my other fic, so I figured I'd go ahead and write this out too. I hope it wasn't too terrible.
> 
> I love comments! Let me know what you think.


End file.
